


Big Mac

by bettertoflee



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Bathroom Sex, F/M, Trash Triplets - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 08:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19127995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettertoflee/pseuds/bettertoflee
Summary: It’s 4AM, Kira is drunk off her ass in a McDonald’s, and someone has been watching her try to eat this burger for 30 minutes.What a fucking joy ride.





	Big Mac

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilithsaur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithsaur/gifts), [SecretReyloTrash (BadOldWest)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadOldWest/gifts).



> This is for Lilithsaur, who birthed the Trash Triplets, and for SecretReyloTrash, who gave them a whole life of their own. 
> 
> You both keep us so well fed. 
> 
> I can’t possibly do Ben and Kira justice but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

The light overhead flickers and Kira’s jacket drops to the bathroom floor, the leather smacking against the tile. 

“Fuck,” she says with her mouth against what can only rightfully be described as a mobilized brick wall. He bites a little on her lips and her black nails rake over his scalp, holding him to her.

“I’ll have it cleaned,” he says, pulling back. 

“You’ll—” She’s cut off as he hoists her up and onto the sink. A puddle of water seeps through her jeans but honestly, she hardly notices. “It’s going to be covered in piss, you asshat.” 

He has his lips against her ear now and her own mouth is parted. Her eyes roll back with her head as he runs the palm of his giant hand up from her collarbone across her neck and savors every sweaty, tear stained inch of her and Kira—she can hardly think. 

“I—I need to go,” she says, one hand pressed against his chest, the other still buried deep in his hair, pulling a little at the nape and keeping his lips in place against her.

He comes up again and nips at the flesh behind her ear, letting his teeth graze a little red trail as he pulls away to face her. 

“If that’s what you want.” 

She pushes into him, toeing that line between what he’ll give willingly and what she must ask for. She’s about to say _‘_ _Yes, I think I should go’_ when he whispers something in her ear and a wave washes over her. 

His fingers trace her brow, work their way across her skin until they’re knuckle deep at the nape of her neck. He pushes back until they’re cupping her head. 

He is more delicate than he appears. 

Kira’s lashes flutter until they meet, and when they do, the entire East Coast is on its knees. 

Ben bows his head, swallowing her whole. 

His fingers find the hem of her shirt; they trail up her sides until he has her in hand, rolling each nipple with the pads of his thumb until they’re just as solid as the piercings beside them. A little moan breaks through what’s left of her composure and transfers itself until it is lodged in the back of the his throat. 

Someone pounds on the bathroom door, tearing her attention away only long enough to catch her reflection in the mirror. Her mascara has made rivulets in the planes of her cheeks. The look of sheer ecstasy written in her eyes is all wrong. She can tell he is lost to her. This isn’t what she came for—isn’t how she intended the night to pan out. 

She pushes his long hair out of his face and meets those soft, familiar eyes. 

It’s no use. 

There’s another pound on the door. The woman from the counter says something unintelligible but Kira’s mostly certain it’s probably a reprise of the first act. 

“Fuck it,” she says. She pulls him in for a kiss; sloppy and hurried and out of practice. “Okay, Ben. Just—” 

She’s thinking of the fact that she just threw up, of the fact that they’ve both eaten a god awful amount of greasy fast food and in typical fashion Ben’s right there with her, one step ahead. 

He shakes his head and pulls her closer to the edge of the counter until her hips are in line with his own. 

“Kira, my darling…you look good enough to eat.”

As he pops the button of her jeans and drags the zipper down with more familiarity than he could his own, Kira braces herself against the sink and for the first time that night, tears aren’t on the menu.

* * *

Something sticky is holding Kira’s forearm to the cheap formica table.

When she lifts a fry to her mouth, the skin pulls back and little tendrils of goo stretch, then snap. It forms a marriage of sorts, between her and the greasy McDonald’s booth. She eyes it inquisitively. Her face ought to twist into a slight pinch of disgust at the thought of what it might be, but it doesn’t. Instead, there is an idle curiosity. It’s either been brown from the start or has been made that way after days and weeks of careful, practiced execution on part of the staff behind the counter. There is a likely chance that at one time, it might have been honey or Szechuan sauce.

She picks up another fry and dips it in the paper cup of ketchup then watches it drip down to the tips of her fingers before shoving it in her mouth. 

“Too salty,” she mumbles to herself. “Everything here is always too salty.”

She squeezes her eyes shut and presses the heels of her hands to her lids until she sees nothing but black patches and flickering stars. 

Somewhere in the distance, she hears the ding of the register followed by a mechanic clank as the drawer is slammed shut. 

_Who pays with cash?_

She peeks one eye open and peers around her wrist. 

The McDonald’s is still mostly empty, save for the handful of teenagers who are in the back messing around with a stack of lids like they’re frisbees. It strikes a nerve, but what bothers her more is the fact that it’s bothering her at all. Five years ago that would have been her.  Hell _. Twelve hours_  ago. She lets out a little groan and pinches her eyes closed again. 

“God, what happened to you?”

She doesn’t mean to say the words out loud, but she does. That seems to be something she does now, talk to herself. She can feel eyes of a man near the counter burning through the leather of her jacket. She might walk away with a tattoo of his irises between her shoulder blades by the time she leaves this place. She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking up or offering any apology for existing in the same space as him. 

There are only a few things she cares about at the moment and a random dude in McDonalds isn’t anywhere on the list. 

She is too drunk to notice and too hungry to care and there is no point in troubling herself with something that can easily be washed off in a matter of seconds when she’s finished with her burger.

When she pulls her hands away from her eyes and the room around her comes back into focus, she’s not sure if she’s been thinking of the man at the counter or the stain on the table. 

 

Sometimes drinking is a bitch and sometimes it’s just the right time for a Big Mac. 

Kira hiccups and it turns into a belch which leads to a choked sob at the back of her throat and in a matter of seconds, she can feel herself beginning to crumble.

_Some catch you are._

There is a certain kind of hell that permeates your mouth after a particular blend of ketchup and grease. The tomato tastes heavy on her tongue as it mingles with the vodka that has been coursing through her veins for the past sever hours. If she thinks hard enough, it’s not so unlike a Bloody Mary. 

Which is good. 

Seeing as every second that passes brings her closer and closer to 4AM, maybe she ought to be more focused on a hangover remedy than fast food. 

She looks down at her hands and the near quarter pound of ground beef resting between them, waiting. A drop of Big Mac sauce oozes out the back of the burger and sludges between her fingers before dripping to the table. 

She clears her throat, a deep cough of exhalation which stops the tears, though nothing can be done for the other two offenses—the belching and the hiccuping. They’ll stick around for a while longer if history is worth repeating itself. 

And usually, in Kira’s experience, when alcohol is involved, it is. 

She lifts her arm, belches again (this time, she does her best to hold it in) (it results in an awful pain coursing through her chest), and looks at the smear from the mystery substance. 

“Sounds about right.”

Without a second thought, she brings her hand to her moth and parts her fingers, licking between them until the sauce is gone and she’s slightly less sticky than she had been. Her hands fall away from her mouth, a little sloppy, a little rushed—definitely too heavy for her to hold, and as it does, her gaze falls forward on the only other inhabitant of the restaurant, save the delinquents behind the counter. 

The table is covered in a display that rivals her own: two boxes that either contain burgers, or once had, a large pocket of fries which have been spilled out across several napkins, and one of those little pies. There are at least ten cups of ketchup amongst the other wrappers, some of them flattened out in order to get every last drop without being wasteful. 

She only knows one person who does that. 

Kira’s tongue runs across her bottom lip as she follows the arms, up the white and yellow paper cup, and land on the full lips sucking at the straw. 

Ben’s eyes are locked on her, unblinking.

“Fucking shit,” she says, almost dropping her burger. Her voice sounds watery —of course, the one night she breaks down in a drunken rage and eats her weight in McDonald’s is the night Ben Solo decides he’s not too good for fast food. 

Kira narrows her eyes as her central nervous system catches up and she’s able to accurately assess what’s happening. Fuck him for being here. Fuck him for staring. Fuck him for not saying a goddamn thing even though they’ve been sitting across from each other for at least thirty minutes.

“That’s quite the selection for a morning fast food run,” she says bitterly. She hiccups again and mutters a curse under her breath. 

Across from her, Ben raises the burger in his hands. 

“Old habit I picked up from a friend.”

_God_. She’d forgotten how deep his voice was. 

It sobers her a little, hearing him. 

Rather than let it soothe her the way it ought to—the way it used to—she lets herself lash out. 

“I’m trying to eat my god-damned food. Can’t you tell I’m not in the mood to be put on trial for my decisions? Isn’t anyone aware of that? Jesus Christ.”

Ben’s face remains unchanged, like this is exactly what he expected from her. Maybe it was. Maybe this is the reason he doesn’t talk to her anymore. 

_It’s not always other people, Kira. Sometimes it’s just you. Get over yourself._

Maybe Rey was right. 

“Ma’am—” An older woman Kira hadn’t noticed until now clears her throat from behind the counter. Kira’s head whips around to face her but the proportions are all off. She looks down and realizes that in her outburst, she’d flung herself up from her seat.

“What?” she snaps. 

The woman’s face remains unchanging, bored with whatever might be unfolding before her. “You can’t shout in here. This is a McDonald’s.” 

Kira slumps back into her seat, too heavy to hold herself up, and takes a bite of her burger. “Well spotted,” she mutters through a mouthful of half-chewed food. 

When her eyes drift back over to Ben, he has the audacity to look around as if the woman might be speaking to anyone else. 

_Don’t try to act like you want to save me now_ , she thinks. 

When he comes up short, he has no other option but to look at the top of the table or match Kira’s stare. 

A brave man, or a stupid one, he chooses the latter. 

 

He’s fucking  _ attractive_—and because she’s still mostly drunk, and because the last time she saw him, he had some leggy blond in his lap with her shirt draped around his shoulders like a scarf, his good looks completely bypass where they would have regularly gotten stuck and land on her bad side. 

There’s a very 1950’s, devil-may-care kind of way about him, if not, perhaps, a bit sharper. His angles have more of a point and the earring isn’t totally on par with James Dean. He gets it from his dad and Kira hates that she knows this. It’s an indication of attachment, of  _knowing_ someone in a way she typically tries to keep from knowing anyone.

“Really?” she asks, swallowing another bite.

He doesn’t say anything but his brow does that thing where it forms a crease in the middle. As she would have suspected, it’s followed promptly by a slight twitch to his lip and dip of his left eyebrow. She lets out a scoff of laughter. 

“Haven’t cut your hair in a while.”

The dark locks frame his face perfectly. It’s exactly as long as she’d always begged him to grow it. The first summer after he graduated high school, when she was still scraping by in English, he’d let it get just below his chin. Night after countless night, she’d twist the bends of his curls through her fingers, urging him to grow it just a little bit more. 

_Just enough for me to hold onto_ , she’d say.  _Just enough for me to hold you here_.

For some reason he never would. Whether or not this dawns on him she can’t tell. Kira is practiced in reading Ben’s face, but this one has glimmers of a person she doesn’t know. And she isn’t a seer. 

“Drink your fucking milkshake and leave me alone,” she says. 

From where her arm is resting along the table top, she angles her wrist until her palm is facing the ceiling and gently closes all but one finger, flashing her black-polished bird in his face. The corner of his mouth turns up, but he does a good job of not letting her see him smile. She maintains eye contact until he breaks away, finally returning to his own table and troubles. Whatever they might be. 

A few dozen rude comments sit on the tip of her tongue at the very same second her phone begins to buzz beside the cup of soda in front of her. 

She takes one glance at the screen before muttering “Fuck off,” and punching the  _Remind Me_ button. Rey’s face disappears into the background, turning slowly to black. When Daisy’s face displays next, she shuts the phone down and stows it away in her bag so no one will ever find her. 

With her attention back on the burger, she brings it to her mouth and tries to take another bite. She’d been so  hungry when she walked in. Nothing in her whole life had ever looked as appetizing, but the very thought of swallowing it now, the very thought of the bun and the patty and that god forsaken ketchup on her tongue makes her stomach churn. 

It’s enough to ignite the flood of tears once more and before she knows what’s come over her, she’s sobbing again, both hands outstretched holding a sloppy burger at a fucking McDonald’s with her literal wet-dream-turned-nightmare staring at her the whole time. 

She moans, a stifled little half cry, and putsthe burger down inside it’s little cardboard box. She hastily pushes up the sleeve of her jacket until a corner of flannel is accessible and wipes away the tears.

It’s humiliating. A fitting end for the day she’s had. 

She clears her throat. 

“Do you have to do that?” 

Her voice, watery as her face, cuts across the room, drawing a quiet hush from behind the counter. It’s such a whisper that, had Ben been looking anywhere but at her (like she’d asked), he might not have heard her at all. 

“It’s easier to eat these things when they come with a wrapper, you know,” she barks to the staff who are now watching her and Ben like they’re a double feature at the Amelia Drive-In. 

She piles her tray with the remnants of her meal and stands. The second she does, the room spins. She shoves the tray into the trashcan on her way out of the booth and belches again. This time a little something comes up. 

She’d like nothing more than to die right where she stands. 

Without any other forewarning, her face scrunches up and a prickling behind her eyes grows steadily more painful. 

“Fucking  _hell_.”

She leans forward and angles her head over the trashcan just in time for the burger she did eat to reunite with the burger she hadn’t. 

 

The fresh air sobers her up more quickly than the food ever would have. 

Dawn is hovering somewhere just along the horizon in pinks and oranges and some shade of almost-blue that looks as if it were left over from the night before. 

Kira stretches her arms, folding them neatly behind her head, letting her feet teeter on the edge of the curb. The crying has stopped,  thank god, and for the most part, the heartburn seems to be on its way out. She can see straight again, finally. 

She’s almost surprised when she hears the door open behind her and it’s not absolute silence the follows. 

“Here,” Ben says, coming up behind her. There’s a cup of water in his outstretched hand and a stack of napkins in the other. “Drink this.”

“I’m fine,” she says, not turning to meet his eye. 

If she does, it’s game over. Years of hard work washed down the tube with the rest of her life. 

He takes her wrist and pulls until her arm is outstretched then forces the cup into her palm, her restraint not match for his strength. He lifts his chin and gives her a level nod. She holds his stare as she takes a sip from the straw and spits the water on the ground. 

There is a long period of time where neither of them say a word, both standing just on the edge of falling, not sure if what lies below is pavement or something else. This next step will defining. Deafening. 

“What happened?” he asks after a while. 

“What do you care?”

If she were an amalgam of her sisters, she might be able to admit that a lot of time had passed since she and Ben last spoke to one another. Neither of them is the same person they were fresh out of high school.

“I got fired,” she says. 

She lets out a long sigh, takes another drink of the water and this time swallows it. That’s the problem; she’s not an amalgam of her sisters. She can’t brush things off like they’re a layer of dust over something shiny—bad decisions only temporary blemishes on life. You can’t expect the same things from different people, even if they look exactly alike. Ben is not his brothers the same way Kira is not her sisters. That’s what makes them who they are. 

For all his faults, she has to give him credit where credit is due. He’s still standing there beside her and he isn’t pressing her for more details than she’s willing to give. He’ll drive her to an early grave. 

“I didn’t like the way a customer was talking to me; told him as much. He proceeded to tell me I needed to get my pH levels in balance and to stop being such a vagina.”

This time the entirety of Ben’s mouth pulls up into a grin. He tries to swallow it back before Kira can see it, but isn’t fast enough. Despite herself, she lets out a snort. 

“I kneed him in the dick and asked him what he thought of that, for a vagina.”

They both laugh hard, for what feels like a lifetime. 

The burger had felt heavy—but it was no match for what she’d been feeling over the past twelve hours. Gravity tied chains to her ankles and pulled her closer to the fiery depths of whatever kind of hell she was destined for with every passing second, each ignored call from her sisters another nail in the coffin. 

Kira finds a rock on the side of the curb and kicks it into the parking lot where it skitters until it rolls up next to the tire of her junker car. 

“I shouldn’t have driven here,” she says. 

“Do you need a ride?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and continues to peer off into the distance as the sun peaks over the buildings along the skyline. She gives a slight shake to her head. 

“I’m fine,” she says. Hard as always. 

Ben lets it sit for a minute. 

“Come on,” he says finally, taking her elbow gently and pulling her back toward the door of the McDonald’s. “Lets get you cleaned up.”

* * *

“How was your milkshake?” she mutters with her head thrown back against the mirror, legs spread wide across the countertop. Her pants are somewhere on the floor with her jacket, both of them surely covered in things far worse than the sauce on the table.

She’s losing her breath but then again, so is he. Ben laves at her, dragging his tongue from one apex to the other and Kira throws her arm across her mouth to stifle a moan. 

“Didn’t get one,” he says when he comes up for air. “Machine was broken.”

He keeps at it until her knees are near her shoulders, his hands spread across the inner parts of her thighs, holding her in place, chasing her while she chases release. Another knock pounds against the door and this time the woman definitely does shout, ‘This is a _McDonald’s_ ’.

It drives Kira over the edge and she meets the woman’s scream with her own. 

Breathless and dizzy and sober for the first time since being escorted off the property of her former employer, Kira lets her legs fall until they’re dangling over the countertop. 

“Fuck this is disgusting,” she says, pulling Ben to her for another kiss. He tastes like her; burger, ketchup,and all. 

He breaks away and takes a drag of the water which had been mostly forgotten in the corner by the soap dispenser. Gently, he pushes a few flyaway hairs off Kira’s brow with his thumb and places a kiss to her forehead. 

Without invitation, Kira wraps her legs around him and bites at his lip. She can feel him smile beneath her. 

“So,” she says quietly. “Why are you here alone at 4AM eating a Big Mac?”


End file.
